I Decided To Be What Crime Made

I Could Not Take Lightly The Idea That People Made Love Without Me.

A Great Wind Swept Over The Ghetto, Carrying Away Shame, Invisibility And Four Centuries Of Humiliation. But When The Wind Dropped People Saw It Had Been Only A Little Breeze, Friendly, Almost Gentle.

Crimes Of Which A People Is Ashamed Constitute Its Real History. The Same Is True Of Man.

A Man Must Dream A Long Time In Order To Act With Grandeur, And Dreaming Is Nursed In Darkness.

Added To The Moral Solitude Of The Murderer Comes The Solitude Of The Artist, Which Can Acknowledge No Authority, Save That Of Another Artist.